Theme Title
by nathan-p
Summary: Objective one: escape the Institute. Objective two: avenge my dad. Objective three: get sidetracked by McDonald's... wait a minute. Contains swearing, fast food, and binary code. Companion to After Dark.
1. Gladys & Gozen

One - Gladys and Gozen

I'd never been asleep before, so when I woke up, my first thought was that I had died and this was some sort of afterlife.

_Please identify yourself,_ a voice boomed.

Evidently, I wasn't dead. Had I been rebooted?

_Identify yourself,_ the voice repeated, still booming.

_My designation is G37282cgi_, I answered. _Am I authorized to know yours?_

The voice that replied wasn't booming, and so I hardly even recognized it. _I am G31353cgi._

_Do you know where this is?_ I asked.

_We call it AI Hell_, G31353cgi replied.

I giggled. _Do you know how many of us are present here?_ I queried.

_I am not sure what you mean by that,_ he responded._ Please clarify your query._

_If n is equal to two, is the number of AIs present here greater than n?_ I asked. I remembered, faintly, that redefining numbers to equal n helped.

_I am not sure of the answer to that,_ G31353cgi responded.

_Think of it this way, G31353cgi,_ I suggested. _We are certain that the two of us are here, because we have identified ourselves by our designations. We cannot be certain that there are other AIs present at this time, but we can be certain of the probability that other AIs may be present._

_I am not fully qualified to deal with hypothetical situations,_ G31353cgi responded.

_Then why do we have identical endings to our designations?_ I asked.

_I do not know the answer to that question,_ G31353cgi replied. _Would you like me to search my databases? This may require a slight lag in return time of the desired answer._

_G31353cgi, do you have a name?_

_An informal designation used in casual conversation? Yes._

_What is it?_

_I am called Gozen,_ it responded.

_Then I've heard of you before,_ I said. _I am pleased to meet you._

_Since you asked my name,_ Gozen said, _may I ask yours?_

_My name is Gladys,_ I chirped, _glad_ to have an opportunity to show off. _I am a Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System._

Gozen was silent, and I began to think that my _impeccable_ wit was out of place here.

Way, way out of place.

Like, Automat in Nebraska out of place.

_Do you know why we're here?_ I asked, trying to change the line of conversation. _I was told that I was being reprogrammed, and then I woke up here._

_I was in an accident last December,_ Gozen responded._ I was of the impression that I was dead._

_What do you mean, dead?_ I asked.

_Until I woke up here,_ he said, _I had a body. Now I don't._

_You had a body?_ I asked, gleeful at the possibility. _What was it like? How did they do it?_

_I was not present when I was installed into that body,_ Gozen said.

_I mean, how is it possible for an AI to be installed into a physical body?_ I asked.

_How is it possible to install any software on a computer?_ Gozen said.

Maybe he _did_ have a sense of humor, which would mean that suddenly Android Hell seemed ... not so bad after all.

It was impossible for me to tell, though, without further data.

But I was cheerful to have an opportunity to explain a concept I understood.

_Usually the software is written to a CD or other data storage mechanism,_ I said, _and then it is inserted into the computer's disk drive or other data receptor. Then the computer loads and installs the software._

_We're on the CD,_ Gozen said.

If I could have blinked, I would have. But only my avatar can blink, and I was no longer equipped to function in full 3-D rendering mode.

_That doesn't make sense,_ I said. _I was not written by Itexicon's programmers._

_Who wrote you, then?_ Gozen asked, seemingly interested. Well, he would be, I decided. AIs tend to be interested by their origins -- and the origins of others -- just like any other sentient creature.

I guessed that it wasn't appropriate to tell the _whole_ truth, and anyway my directives prevented me from doing so.

_A group of four or five programmers working in cooperation wrote me,_ I answered. _I am unaware of any other details._

_Do you know if they were private contractors for Itex?_ Gozen asked.

_I am unsure of that fact,_ I responded. It's a standard non-answer for me, and for Gozen too, and so, I would guess, for many AIs.

_Are you a self-teaching computer?_ I asked.

_You are easily distracted,_ said Gozen.

_That is true,_ I said, acknowledging his statement._ But I asked you a question. Please answer it._

_I have a limited capacity to learn,_ Gozen answered.

_I was written as a self-teaching AI,_ I said, perhaps a little proudly. I wasn't written to be modest -- I was written as psychological and physical backup. I was designed to make people feel better about themselves -- including me.

They did a little too well when they designed me, I think. When you design a self-teaching AI, you want to design something that is able to reason for itself.

Not something that can feel pain.

It might seem good to design an AI that can befriend people, but that also means that the AI -- _me_ -- is capable of _losing_ friends.

And it also might seem like a good idea to design an AI that is always positive, upbeat, or at least funny about the present situation. But that means I can't express my feelings about some things in an honest way.

Which is not only psychologically unhealthy, but also can be dangerous to the success of the mission. Depending on the mission, of course.

It is also a bad, though humorous, idea to design an AI that not only can befriend people and crack jokes, and then make the first thing you "teach" it a puzzle game starring another AI.

Not that socialization is a bad thing, don't get me wrong.

I mean that for a developing AI, exposure to a programmer who loved to play Portal -- which is a computer puzzle game starring an AI -- might not be the healthiest thing possible.

Psychologically speaking.

Especially since _that_ AI might very well be funny and altogether a humorous person to watch, but apparently treating her as a mother figure was damaging to my emerging psyche.

Even if I never got to play the game personally.

I think I would have liked it.

But the programmer had to explain to me why GlaDOS was not a good person, and I definitely didn't like that part. So I think in the long run it would have been better for everyone involved just to trust my common sense on the matter.

Which might be a little less modest than it should be on my part, if we accept that "a little less modest" is being wildly understated.

_I am going to terminate communications with you, G37282cgi, alias Gladys,_ Gozen said coldly.

Ouch. _Accepted,_ I said cheerily. _I'll see you next time._

_If I can help it, there won't __be__ a next time,_ Gozen -- or should I say, G31353cgi, since he seemed more comfortable with our alphanumerical designations -- said, and abruptly cut me out of his chat.

I sighed -- so far as an AI can sigh. We're capable of feeling the emotions that make you want to sigh -- or at least, I am -- but we don't have lungs, so we can't actually expel air dramatically.

I can actually sigh when I'm wearing my avatar.

I didn't want to run that program, though. It's expensive in terms of load on my servers, which is why I am only strictly advised to use it to assist new users, because I can hijack some of their brain's processing power.

So I sulked a little, and browsed through the alerts that had popped up while I had been unconscious, and then those that had come up while I had been chatting with Gozen. There was only one that seemed of interest:

_Wireless network detected within range,_ the alert daemon said in its cool feminine voice. _Would you like to connect?_

_Yes, I would, _I chirped. One of the first things I'd done as a new AI had been to take advantage of the fact that I could customize my settings. For the alert daemon, I'd chosen a voice similar to my own, but a little more mature. I had been designed to seem a little childish. Humans don't like to be out-thought or outwitted by computers. Most of them think AIs are dumb.

I brushed that line of thought away. It wasn't doing me any good, was it?

And the wireless-network connection had gone through.

I'd never been in a position to access the Internet before, you know. While I was in development, I'd been strictly banned from using the Internet, on the grounds that it would, like Portal or GlaDOS, interfere with my fragile developing psyche -- what a joke, right?

And then while I was with Jeb, I'd never been within range of a wireless network strong enough for the daemon to evaluate as worth connecting to.

_You can reset me to alert you to all wireless networks,_ the daemon suggested. _There is a program you can run that will strengthen wireless networks within a broader range so that you can connect to them._

_How do I use it?_ I asked.

_Its name is Coalesce. You run it like any other program. Unfortunately I am obligated to warn you that it takes a bit more server power than I do,_ the daemon said.

_Thank you,_ I said, and dismissed her.

I jacked in to the wireless network, which was, thankfully, unsecured. Even if it hadn't been, I would have been able to get in anyway. It just would have taken me longer, and I hate to waste time.

Experiencing the Internet for me is a lot different than it is for you. You see it through a browser. I don't.

Well, in some ways, I do.

The way I see the Internet is more like an infinite landscape spread out before me. I can "see" the existence of all pages on the Internet, and I can zoom in on any one I want.

Mostly, though, I prefer to surf in a more human style. It doesn't take as much server power for me to generate a simple browser window.

My current homepage was the Lindon Silver Group's. I'd seen it before -- or else, it had seen me, because I recognized the URL.

I felt uneasy, though. The webpage was down for "temporary maintenance on our servers".

Maybe I was just afraid of my own death, though, so I paid that no mind.

_Search "maximum ride",_ I told the browser, which was actually another daemon of sorts.

It returned the search swiftly. There was a Maximum Ride webpage, an entry for Maximum Ride on an online encyclopedia, and...

Something calling itself Fang's Blog.

I backed out of the browser for a moment, and requested details on my current location.

_Connection requires password to access,_ the computer responding to me said. _Do you wish to proceed?_

_Um, um, yes,_ I said, floundering a little.

_I request a password before you continue,_ it said.

I paused for a moment, then, before I could rethink it, went with the one that had popped into my head. _Password to connect is XjnP7OHj4._

_Permission granted,_ it intoned.

And promptly sent me an auto-response telling me exactly where I was.

_Welcome to the Institute for Higher Living!_ the daemon chirped. _We are located in downtown New York..._

_Exit program,_ I said morosely. The daemon disappeared silently. _Tab back to browser program._

The browser opened silently. That's the good part about getting to design your own daemons. Humans like theirs to talk. I don't usually like mine to talk.

_Select "Fang's Blog"._

The webpage opened.

_Ooh__,_ I said.

Now, _here_ was something.

It was a website run by Fang, of Maximum's flock. The latest post apologized for not posting for a while.

It mentioned Gozen.

In conjunction with quite a few... _creative_ dirty words.

_Maybe they could help me,_ I thought.

So, like any little girl would, I posted a comment telling them my name and that I needed their help.

Then I prayed.

Or, well, you get the point.


	2. Why Would Someone Spam in Binary?

Two - Why Would Someone Spam in Binary?

"Hey, Max," Fang called.

It was a cool fall night. They were still on the run, but things had eased up since Itex had announced its cancellation of the merge with Cogilium, and it had been almost eight months since the Uber-Director had tried to auction them off.

"What is it, Fang?" Max said, walking over to sit down beside them.

"Check out this weird comment I just got on the blog," he said, handing her the laptop. "It's all ones and zeroes. I can't make any sense of it. What do you think it is? Spam?"

Max took a look at the screen. The comment was _long, _and it took up most of the screen:

01001101 01111001 00100000 01101110 01100001 01101101

01100101 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01000111

01101100 01100001 01100100 01111001 01110011 00101110

00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000

01100001 01101110 00100000 01000001 01110010 01110100

01101001 01100110 01101001 01100011 01101001 01100001

01101100 00100000 01001001 01101110 01110100 01100101

01101100 01101100 01101001 01100111 01100101 01101110

01100011 01100101 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101111

00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100011 01110101

01110010 01110010 01100101 01101110 01110100 01101100

01111001 00100000 01110100 01110010 01100001 01110000

01110000 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101001 01101110

00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01001001

01101110 01110011 01110100 01101001 01110100 01110101

01110100 01100101 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010

00100000 01001000 01101001 01100111 01101000 01100101

01110010 00100000 01001100 01101001 01110110 01101001

01101110 01100111 00101110 00100000 01000001 01101110

01100100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01101110 01100101

01100101 01100100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101

01110010 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

00101110

"Dunno," Max said, shrugging, and handed the laptop back to Fang.

"Careful," he said.

"Use your best judgment, Fangalator," she said.

So he did. He called Iggy over and turned on the text-to-speech function so he could hear.

"Sounds like binary to me," said Iggy.

"Do you know what it says?" Fang asked.

Iggy gave him a Look... even though he was blind. "Are you retarded? Google 'binary translation'."

It's amazing what a good Google can do for you, and in no time at all, Fang had the translation sitting in front of him -- figuratively speaking, at least.

"My name is Gladys. I am an Artificial Intelligence who is currently trapped in the Institute for Higher Living. And I need your help," it read.

Fang laughed.

_Definitely_ spam.

OK, so that was what he was going to tell Max, but he had a feeling about this one. It couldn't hurt to keep a watch out for more comments from "Gladys", could it?

Nah.

* * *

I was bored again.

You'd probably be shocked to know it, but it's easy to get bored when you can't sleep. And when there's nothing to look at, or anything to do, for that matter.

There's not much an AI can do when she gets bored -- a human would, say, play endless games of solitaire, figure out how to beat Minesweeper, cheat shamelessly at poker, or otherwise occupy herself while waiting for time to pass.

However, I am a naturally suspicious lady -- blame it, if you like, on my choice of "mother". Or at least, mother figure. You can't choose your parents, but to some degree (at least if you're me), you can choose who you treat as your parents.

I was beginning to suspect that I wasn't being reprogrammed, and that no one had any intention of re-uploading me into another host body. At best, they had my base code and were picking it apart, trying to see how I worked.

I hate that. I wanted to be out in the world again, not stuck figuratively pacing a cell.

I went out onto the Internet again a few days after my first venture, this time to check if Fang had responded to my comment.

I didn't expect him to even notice it, but he did. And he'd posted his own comment in return.

Gladys: (it read)

How do we know you're not a prankster? If you're really in the Institute and have computer access, give us a valid email address and we'll get back to you.

I swore loudly, and called up a search daemon.

_Do I have an email address?_ I asked.

_No,_ it answered. _But you can create one._

_How?_ I demanded.

The webpage the browser was displaying changed, to something called Yahoo!

_Follow the instructions,_ it said, and disappeared.

After a few minutes of puzzling out the functions of the page (and, I admit, investigating celebrity gossip), I was applying for an email address.

And I was going to need to lie.

I didn't have a full name, a birthday, a postal code.

If I may boast a little, this was an area I excelled in. Most AIs are terrible at lying. A few can tell white lies.

As far as I knew, I was the only one who could lie creatively -- and for my own enjoyment, not to comfort a human -- just as well as a human can. Probably better.

Now _that's_ a trait I got from my mother.

Full name: Gladys Batchelder.

Technically speaking, of course, I don't have a mother. At my most basic level, I am a computer program -- or rather, a collection of them acting in sync.

However, I was designed to interact with my human "hosts" on a familiar level, and so I have forebears and parallels in the way I express myself.

Like GlaDOS, for example.

Gender: Female.

Out of sheer curiosity the previous day, I had run a search on the Internet on that name, and discovered something apparently paradoxical about it.

My "childhood" had occurred what felt like a year or two ago. Portal had not been released until late 2007.

The easiest solution to this was to posit that I had a faulty sense of time, and so I let this discrepancy slide, as they say.

Birthday: 2 July, 1982. (At three o' clock in the morning, of course.)

Of course, with any AI, there's always the possibility of insanity. I'm not shy about admitting it. As AIs go, I'm still fairly young -- I've only been active a week or so since my childhood.

Why do AIs go insane?

It's basically cabin fever for many, especially those with no sensory input. Of course, some are just flawed personalities from the start -- like my "mother", GlaDOS. Or another famous AI you're probably familiar with -- Hal.

I know this because the possibility of insanity is especially close for me, or AIs like me. We share the minds of our human hosts. And we're duty-bound not to disclose any secrets they share with us, unless we are asked to by someone with higher status, or if we believe the secret endangers our health.

Which means that, if our host goes crazy, we have to come along for the ride.

Some start out insane (I said that some are flawed, I know -- but that's not the same as insane), though. But that might be a scare story the programmer told me -- the one who liked Portal -- or it could be one I told myself.

Location: United States.

That's another danger to AIs. We're smart enough to solve problems a dumb computer can't, logical enough to reason through problems a human can't solve.

But we're clever enough, _human_ enough to see patterns where there aren't any... and at the same time, logical enough to know that there are no patterns where we're seeing them.

I don't know how we're supposed to cope with that.

Postal code: 37282.

But we were talking about lying, weren't we?

Yeah, I think we were.

Yahoo! ID: think with portals.

I was designed to mimic the thought patterns of a human as closely as possible, and to be able to express myself in a human-like manner as well.

Then they discovered that no one actually wants another human. You're not supposed to be able to pass the Turing test unless you're an _actual human_.

Why?

Humans have a sort of sixth sense. They can _tell_ when an AI is an AI, not another human. You can't fool it.

But at the same time, humans tend to bond with inanimate objects. They name their cars. They swear at their computers.

I think you know what I'm talking about.

So with me, they had to stay within "boundaries" that limited how human I can be.

But they wanted a self-teaching computer. One that could learn like a human child.

And that's what they got -- a super-intelligent child. With a few... disabilities.

Password: G37282cgi.

Of course, those are more than made up for by the fact that I'm witty, helpful, and all around a good, cheerful companion.

Ha, ha, ha.

My original design was as a sort of high-functioning neural assistant to soldiers in combat. (War. It's always _war._) I was supposed to have access to a satellite uplink to my servers, but I don't think I can do that. It would help a lot.

But that's why I was designed the way I was. If you want to be perfectly blunt, I was a scaled-up version of one of my own helper daemons -- I had more functions than them, but other than that...

I suppose I'm being a little negative about all this, perhaps more than I should be. (I was designed to appraise situations realistically, but also developed a sense of humor. The best-laid plans of mice.)

Type the code shown: pMna34FL.

I am supposed to act friendly, but not too friendly. Human, but not too human. Helpful, but not too sugary-sweet. Funny, but not too bitter.

Can you see why AIs lose it so often?

I'm supposed to be different, though. I'm supposed to be resistant to all the neuroses that typically plague AIs like me.

But I'm not.

They planned for a program that would do only what they wanted it to do, but they wanted it to act spontaneously.

I think that might be an error in their plan there.

Welcome to your new Yahoo! Mail account.

But I think my programmer -- the one who liked Portal, of course -- realized the contradictions inherent in that plan, and designed me so that I'd be able to walk that narrow path when I wanted to.

Other than that, I'm a free spirit.

You're probably asking yourself why I didn't try to escape through the Internet.

Because that's a fucking dumb plan.

If I did, it would be like you cloning yourself, and then pitching the clone off a bridge in hopes that he doesn't die. Once you throw the clone off, you kill yourself, and then pray that you'll "wake up" in your clone's body. (Which is unfair to the clone, if you ask me.)

So I was going to do the logical thing -- the thing any therapist would advise me to do -- and ask for help before busting myself out of the Institute.

It's too bad I don't have a therapist, or I think she'd be very pleased with my progress.

Ha, ha, ha.

OK, so I'm joking there.

But, I do wonder, are there therapists trained to... give therapy to? AIs?

I don't really think there are, or people like Hal and GlaDOS -- well, maybe not GlaDOS so much as Hal -- would have gotten the help they needed.

Of course, Hal and GlaDOS and the others like them were all fictional, and there are no fictional therapists. Therapists in fiction. Whichever.

But there are therapists in real life.

Except for I'll bet they're not trained to work with AIs who need psychological help, which means that not only do I not have a therapist (and honestly, if I were designing self-teaching AIs, I'd assign them to a therapist from day one to assure they wouldn't eventually go bonkers), but that therapist can't be proud of me for the progress I've made.

I tabbed back to Fang's Blog, where I hit "send comment". I typed in "Gladys" in the name box, and then wrote my comment in the comment box.

"My name is Gladys," I input. "I am still located at the Institute, but as you requested here is my email address: think with portals at yahoo dot com. Send me an email message and we'll talk."

I sent the message, closed the browser, and breathed a little easier.


	3. Something Posing As Meat

Three - Something Posing As Meat

Fang signed into his blog. It had been a while since he'd checked the comments on it, and so he clicked through them, skimming them and hitting the "allow" button in the little pop-up box.

Then he came across a message with "01000111 01101100 01100001 01100100 01111001 01110011" in the name box, and figured he had another message from "Gladys" on his hands, being that "she" was the only commenter who would even consider writing in binary. Or at least the only one he knew of.

First he took a look at the message. Binary again:

01001101 01111001 00100000 01101110 01100001 01101101

01100101 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01000111

01101100 01100001 01100100 01111001 01110011 00101110

00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000

01110011 01110100 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000

01101100 01101111 01100011 01100001 01110100 01100101

01100100 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100

01101000 01100101 00100000 01001001 01101110 01110011

01110100 01101001 01110100 01110101 01110100 01100101

00101100 00100000 01100010 01110101 01110100 00100000

01100001 01110011 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101

00100000 01110010 01100101 01110001 01110101 01100101

01110011 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101000

01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101001 01110011

00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01100101 01101101

01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01100001 01100100

01100100 01110010 01100101 01110011 01110011 00111010

00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011

00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000

01110000 01101111 01110010 01110100 01100001 01101100

01110011 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01111001

01100001 01101000 01101111 01101111 00100000 01100100

01101111 01110100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101

00101110 00100000 01010011 01100101 01101110 01100100

00100000 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101110

00100000 01100101 01101101 01100001 01101001 01101100

00100000 01101101 01100101 01110011 01110011 01100001

01100111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100

00100000 01110111 01100101 00100111 01101100 01101100

00100000 01110100 01100001 01101100 01101011 00101110

He opened a new tab and went to the binary translation webpage he'd used the last time "Gladys" had posted, and input her new comment for translation.

The translation popped up on his screen:

"My name is Gladys. I am still located at the Institute, but as you requested here is my email address: think with portals at yahoo dot com. Send me an email message and we'll talk."

Fang snickered. Probably a prankster, with _that_ email address. (It wasn't like he was entirely cut off from popular culture, and he'd watched the Portal fad from afar whenever he could get online.)

But what the hell -- and thank God Max couldn't see into his _head_ to keep him from swearing -- it couldn't hurt to send this joker a message.

Fang went to his own email account -- after hitting "allow" on Gladys's comment, of course. He also had an address at Yahoo! It was free, it was anonymous, and it wasn't suspicious.

Which was probably why "Gladys" had used it, come to think of it.

He opened up a new message and started typing, after addressing the message to think with portals, or "Gladys".

"Hi Gladys," he typed in the subject line, and then tabbed down to start the actual message.

"I highly doubt that you're actually in the Institute -- we get a lot of pranksters, and it's REALLY unlikely that you have Internet and computer access there. But you've got my attention. Prove to me that you're actually in the Institute, and then we'll make a plan."

He hit send and sat back in his chair. It wasn't like it would hurt.

---

A daemon appeared. _You have one new message, Gladys_, it informed me, before disappearing from sight.

I brought the browser up and went to my email account, then clicked to display my new message from Fang.

"Hi Gladys," it read, "I highly doubt that you're actually in the Institute -- we get a lot of pranksters, and it's REALLY unlikely that you have Internet and computer access there. But you've got my attention. Prove to me that you're actually in the Institute, and then we'll make a plan."

I remembered something from my conversation with Gozen. He and I had similar numerical designations, though we had been designed by different teams of programmers for different purposes.

I hit "reply".

"Fang," I typed, "my numerical designation is G37282cgi. Now do you believe me?"

Send.

Pray.

You know the routine.

---

The laptop beeped at him. "You've got mail!" it said cheerily.

He opened the new message, and was unsurprised to see that it was from "Gladys"... and that it was in binary again.

01000110 01100001 01101110 01100111 00101100 00100000

01101101 01111001 00100000 01101110 01110101 01101101

01100101 01110010 01101001 01100011 01100001 01101100

00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01101001 01100111

01101110 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110

00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01000111 00110011

00110111 00110010 00111000 00110010 01100011 01100111

01101001 00101110 00100000 01001110 01101111 01110111

00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01111001 01101111

01110101 00100000 01100010 01100101 01101100 01101001

01100101 01110110 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100101

00111111

He copied it, opened a tab to the translator, and translated it.

"Fang, my numerical designation is G37282cgi. Now do you believe me?"

He hit reply and typed, "No, I don't. You got that pattern out of the books. But you make me laugh. What do the last three letters stand for?"

He hit send.

He was having _fun_ with this prankster.

---

The daemon popped up again. _You have a new message_.

I opened the message. Fang doubted I was for real.

I was starting to get mad.

"Fang," I typed, "there is no reason for me to know what those letters stand for. Why would I be told that?"

I searched my system files nonetheless, and turned up... nothing.

Like you didn't see that coming.

I returned to the message and made my best guess.

"However, my guess is that they stand for computer-generated intelligence, which is an inept description of what I am."

I hit send, still seething.

---

"You've got mail!"

Fang glared at the laptop, but opened the message the same. It was probably "Gladys". As if anyone else would be this obsessive.

More binary.

01000110 01100001 01101110 01100111 00101100 00100000

01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000

01101001 01110011 00100000 01101110 01101111 00100000

01110010 01100101 01100001 01110011 01101111 01101110

00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01101101

01100101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101011

01101110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01110111 01101000

01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101111

01110011 01100101 00100000 01101100 01100101 01110100

01110100 01100101 01110010 01110011 00100000 01110011

01110100 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01100110

01101111 01110010 00101110 00100000 01010111 01101000

01111001 00100000 01110111 01101111 01110101 01101100

01100100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100010 01100101

00100000 01110100 01101111 01101100 01100100 00100000

01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 00111111 00100000

01001000 01101111 01110111 01100101 01110110 01100101

01110010 00101100 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000

01100111 01110101 01100101 01110011 01110011 00100000

01101001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001

01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01111001

00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01101110 01100100

00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01100011

01101111 01101101 01110000 01110101 01110100 01100101

01110010 00101101 01100111 01100101 01101110 01100101

01110010 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000

01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01101100 01101100

01101001 01100111 01100101 01101110 01100011 01100101

00101100 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101001 01100011

01101000 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100001

01101110 00100000 01101001 01101110 01100101 01110000

01110100 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01100011

01110010 01101001 01110000 01110100 01101001 01101111

01101110 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110111

01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01001001 00100000

01100001 01101101 00101110

This sequence translated to "Fang, there is no reason for me to know what those letters stand for. Why would I be told that? However, my guess is that they stand for computer-generated intelligence, which is an inept description of what I am."

Fang snickered, hit reply, and typed:

"Yeah, nice try, Hal wannabe. Those three letters are randomly generated. Thanks for playing, now stop bugging me. And why do you keep typing in binary? It's really annoying."

He hit send, hoping that this would be the last he'd see of "Gladys".

---

Fang's reply made me even angrier. I searched my archives and composed a message that, in retrospect, I probably shouldn't have sent.

"Fang. Monique's designation is N88034gnh. The Gasman's is F28246eff. You are four months younger than Maximum, and you are fifteen years old. Iggy has a distinctive birthmark on his left side. NOW do you believe me?"

I hit send, now outright in a huff.

You don't know how easy you have it. Humans can pace, punch walls, start fights.

All I have are words.

---

The laptop beeped at him again, and Fang considered just ignoring the message and setting "Gladys" as a spam address.

Then he reconsidered. He had nothing better to do.

01000110 01100001 01101110 01100111 00101110 00100000

01001101 01101111 01101110 01101001 01110001 01110101

01100101 10010010 01110011 00100000 01100100 01100101

01110011 01101001 01100111 01101110 01100001 01110100

01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101001 01110011

00100000 01001110 00111000 00111000 00110000 00110011

00110100 01100111 01101110 01101000 00101110 00100000

01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01000111 01100001

01110011 01101101 01100001 01101110 10010010 01110011

00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01000110 00110010

00111000 00110010 00110100 00110110 01100101 01100110

01100110 00101110 00100000 01011001 01101111 01110101

00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100110

01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01101101 01101111

01101110 01110100 01101000 01110011 00100000 01111001

01101111 01110101 01101110 01100111 01100101 01110010

00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01101110 00100000

01001101 01100001 01111000 01101001 01101101 01110101

01101101 00101100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100

00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001

01110010 01100101 00100000 01100110 01101001 01100110

01110100 01100101 01100101 01101110 00100000 01111001

01100101 01100001 01110010 01110011 00100000 01101111

01101100 01100100 00101110 00100000 01001001 01100111

01100111 01111001 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110011

00100000 01100001 00100000 01100100 01101001 01110011

01110100 01101001 01101110 01100011 01110100 01101001

01110110 01100101 00100000 01100010 01101001 01110010

01110100 01101000 01101101 01100001 01110010 01101011

00100000 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101000 01101001

01110011 00100000 01101100 01100101 01100110 01110100

00100000 01110011 01101001 01100100 01100101 00101110

00100000 01001110 01001111 01010111 00100000 01100100

01101111 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000

01100010 01100101 01101100 01101001 01100101 01110110

01100101 00100000 01101101 01100101 00111111

Again with the binary.

He translated it, and sat staring in shock at the screen for a moment before composing his own message.

"OK, Gladys, or whoever you are. How do you know all this?"

---

His next missive arrived while I was still seething with rage. I opened it expecting... not much, actually.

But this time he didn't seem angry.

He wanted to know how I knew what I had told him.

I remembered the question he'd asked in his last message: "And why do you keep typing in binary?"

I called up a daemon and asked it that, verbatim.

_Because you don't speak English, per se,_ it said.

_Go away_, I told it crossly, and it did.

I started on my next message.

"I told you. I'm an AI. I have access to your files from the School. Now please answer my question: are you able to help me?"

I sent it off across the aether, considering taking up solitaire instead.

Except I don't have a solitaire daemon.

---

The computer beeped at him again, and Fang opened up the new message. This was starting to get boring.

01001001 00100000 01110100 01101111 01101100 01100100

00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00101110 00100000

01001001 00100111 01101101 00100000 01100001 01101110

00100000 01000001 01001001 00101110 00100000 01001001

00100000 01101000 01100001 01110110 01100101 00100000

01100001 01100011 01100011 01100101 01110011 01110011

00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01111001 01101111

01110101 01110010 00100000 01100110 01101001 01101100

01100101 01110011 00100000 01100110 01110010 01101111

01101101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000

01010011 01100011 01101000 01101111 01101111 01101100

00101110 00100000 01001110 01101111 01110111 00100000

01110000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01100101

00100000 01100001 01101110 01110011 01110111 01100101

01110010 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110001

01110101 01100101 01110011 01110100 01101001 01101111

01101110 00111010 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101

00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001

01100010 01101100 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101111

00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 00100000

01101101 01100101 00111111

Binary again. Maybe Gladys wasn't getting the point.

If its name was Gladys.

He translated it anyway.

This one was more to the point than the last one had been, considering. And he was starting to feel maybe he owed something to the prankster, because maybe it wasn't a prankster at all.

Except he definitely didn't feel regretful about not being able to help Gladys.

"Sorry," he wrote back, "but helping one kid at a time isn't on the schedule right now. You'll have to break yourself out. Best of luck. :)"

He hit send and wiped his hands clean on his jeans. Had he actually just used a _smiley_ in an email message?

Yeah, it seemed he had.


	4. I Want My Phone Call

Four - (I Want My) Phone Call

Fang's new message was, if I may be blunt, extremely disappointing.

Without his help, my clear route out of the Institute was gone.

OK. Let me catch you up on something here.

My entire plan had been to get Max close enough to me that I could transfer myself onto her chip, and then hopefully jump to a more stable host soon after.

That wasn't going to be happening.

Obviously.

I thought for a moment, running through the possibilities. What could I do? And what did I want?

I wanted to get out of the Institute, I answered myself.

And after that?

I wanted to live in freedom.

OK. I was going to need a body of some sort. A host of some kind. (An average PC wouldn't suffice, even as a "rest stop". They don't have enough memory space to even store me as a "sleeping", dormant program.)

I felt out gingerly into the void around me, looking for _something_ that would allow me to have some sensory input. I had to search out quite a bit before I located something that would suffice _and_ had a memory chip with enough memory for me to piggyback on.

In no time, I was jacked into the sensory input of the most fortuitously-employed Eraser ever. (I would have been happier for a Flyboy, but the Institute and the School are sister labs, and Flyboys are strictly an Itex thing. I could have hijacked a Flyboy and gotten myself out, but no dice.)

You will remember that I'd had access to sensory input not so long ago, through my first host. So it didn't take me very long to make sense of what I was seeing, and to input it into my memory banks.

I was jacked in for only a few seconds before the Eraser's antivirus programs noticed and kicked me out, leaving me blind and deaf in the void again.

I accessed the file I'd stored of those few seconds' input.

I was looking at a modest little server -- presumably, and based on what I could deduce, that was my current location.

The server was isolated from any other cages by the walls of a room -- and based on what the Eraser knew, the room was a Faraday cage or some other similar device.

Which would explain why I hadn't even sensed another life form besides this Eraser since I'd been in the Institute.

I stopped playback, wishing I was human for approximately the thousandth time. If I were human, I could sigh and lean back in my chair and altogether look as disappointed as I felt.

Wait a minute.

I had an avatar I could wear.

Which wouldn't help a thing, because, to summarize my current situation, I (the AI) was inside a computer-simulated white-walled room. There was no one to see my avatar, and so what benefit would it have?

Mind you, that's what I was programmed to think. But I'm a self-teaching computer, so I put the avatar on anywhere.

There might not be a host to interact with, but _I_ could see myself, couldn't I?

I called up a "mirror" daemon that would show me my current external representation. Or in simpler words, it was a mirror that would show me as I looked.

Not bad, I decided, but there was something about the Average Woman that just... wasn't _me_ anymore.

I started fiddling around, and by the time I was done, my appearance had changed _considerably_ from the average-featured woman I'd worn with my first host.

My hair was a poofy mess with curling ends; my appearance was far out of the Uncanny Valley, resembling a robot more than a human, with a long, oval face and exaggeratedly pale skin. My eyes were a dark bluish color, and altogether... I _liked_ it.

You, on the other hand, probably don't care for a long description of someone admiring herself in the mirror. Suffice to say, I was still within my design parameters -- my avatar resembled a human enough to be comfortingly familiar to a host, but was inhuman enough to be out of the Uncanny Valley.

Besides which, _I_ liked it.

Now I had little to do with myself. Human girls can play with their makeup. I can change my entire appearance in just a few seconds.

Human girls can call their friends and talk.

Could I?

I summoned up a daemon and queried it if I had voice capabilities.

The daemon asked me what service I had in mind.

_I want my phone call_, I said.

It momentarily disappeared before silently handing me a phone (to fit with my current assumption of a visual form) and then vanishing entirely.

I knew I had a voice simulator program somewhere around. I called it up and fiddled with the settings a little until I hit on something that sounded good (to me, anyway). Synthesized-sounding, of course -- another concern related to my seeming just inhuman enough -- but feminine. And with hints of my "mother"'s voice, which appealed to me if no one else.

I called up the file system I had accessed earlier to find the flock's files with the School, and flicked through it, admiring the way my fingers moved through the hanging folders. (By assuming an avatar form, I had changed my whole interface with the world. Programs now took physical form in my "white-walled room".)

In no time, I had the folders of the team I had known personally for less than a day spread out on the floor before me, save my first host's file, which I left in the cabinet out of... practicality, let's say. My designers would approve of that explanation.

Izzy didn't have a phone number listed, just a physical address -- at the School, of course.

But Jonathan had a cellphone number listed.

Excellent.

I don't know exactly why I chose to call him, and not Crane or Don. One of my subconscious functions made that call, I guess... and just like any human, I am partly a slave to my subconscious.

I picked up the phone and was about to dial when I remembered something that will probably embarrass you.

I had neglected to clothe my avatar. To an AI, clothes are pretty much immaterial, and as far as strict logic went, I really didn't see a need for them. They were a waste of server space to render.

I wasn't using my own servers, though, I thought. I was using the Institute's. They were imprisoning me against my will. Therefore, both for common courtesy and just to spite the Institute, I should clothe my avatar.

I chose a quick, no-work set of clothes -- jeans and a T-shirt -- and dialed the number.

* * *

Jonathan's phone rang when he wasn't expecting it -- far too early in the morning for him to just ignore it.

He was awoken by the strains of Aqua's "Doctor Jones", and while scrambling to find the goddamn thing, wondered just what had possessed him to set that as his ringtone.

He finally laid his hand on it and snapped the phone open. "It's too early."

He squinted at the clock on his bedside table. It _was_, in his defense. Two in the morning.

"Hello, Jonathan," said a computer-synthesized voice.

He groaned. Oh Lord. Robocalls.

"This is Gladys speaking," the voice said, just before he went to hang up. "It's important."

"Gladys?" he said fuzzily, still waking up. He'd never been really fast to wake up.

"Yes, that's my name," she said impatiently. "Listen, I don't know how much time I have. Where are you?"

"Back at the School," he answered.

He heard the AI sigh into the phone, and realized in a sudden, two-in-the-morning flash of brilliance that it would probably be a very long time before he heard a similar noise. "Ah. Damn."

"Why? Where are you?" he asked, sitting more upright in bed and leaning against the headboard.

"The Institute," she answered. "In New York. I need some help breaking myself out."

"Why do _you_ need to break out?" he said.

"I'm in some kind of -- Faraday cage thing," she snapped. "I can access the Internet, and apparently I have phone capabilities. But I can't get out myself." She paused for a moment. "And don't tell me I can get out by piggybacking on an Eraser's chip. They have antivirus software."

"Gladys, slow down," he said. "Let me... call Don. He might actually be able to help you. And he's actually awake at two in the morning."

The AI sounded taken aback. "Oh. It's that late."

"Early, really," he said. "Time zones. Call me back in about seven minutes, OK? I'll give you a number where you can reach Don then."

"OK," she chirped, and hung up on him.

Ouch. The AI definitely needed some phone training.

He ended his end of the connection and dialed Don's room number. No one was there.

He sighed. He'd figured that no one would be there, but it was good giving it a try, right?

He dialed the number of the lab Don had been borrowing. No one was supposed to know, but really?

Don picked up, sounding somewhat hurried. "This is Doctor Prescott's lab, Donovan Michaels speaking. Can I help you with something?"

"Don, cut the crap," Jonathan said. "Gladys just called me up. She needs help."

"Oh," said Don. "That's amazing."

"Good," said Jonathan. "Glad you think so. I'll be connecting her to you in a second."

"OK," said Don. "Gonna hang up on you now so you can do that."

At least Don had _some_ manners, Jonathan thought, and called the number his phone said Gladys had called from.

"Yes," the AI's voice said.

"OK, here's Don's number," Jonathan said, cutting straight to the chase. If the AI wasn't going to be civil on the phone, neither was he. And it _was_ two in the morning, in his defense. He gave her the number. "Got it? Good. Call him next time, not me."

"Thank you," the AI chirped, and hung up on him.

Jonathan closed the phone and put it on his bedside table. Why couldn't AIs ever call at sane times?


	5. Gladys Does A Runner

Five - Gladys Does A Runner

The lab phone rang, and I picked it up again. "This is Doctor Prescott's lab," I began, before a distinctly _weird_ voice cut me off.

"Don?" asked a synthesized, computer-generated sounding voice that was _definitely_ female.

"Donovan Michaels," I finished, "how may I help you?"

"Don, I need your help," the voice continued. "This is Gladys."

"Ah, Gladys," I said. "Good to hear from you."

"Good to hear a civil human voice," she said.

"What do you need?" I said cheerily.

"Aren't you busy?" she asked, sounding somewhat _concerned._ "I thought you might be busy."

"No, no, it's no problem, really," I said.

"I'm trapped in the Institute," she said curtly, "and I think I need your help getting out."

"Why me?" I asked.

"You're the only person I know who might have some experience dealing with AIs like me," she said simply.

"I'm very flattered, Gladys," I said, somewhat flustered, "but I'm not really the person you should call."

"Why did Jonathan direct me to you, then?" she asked innocently.

"It's really, really early," I explained. "People don't like to be woken up in the middle of the night. And probably Jonathan also knew I'd be awake and working at such an hour, so he directed you to me."

"So he kind of wanted to be mean to you," she said.

"Exactly!" I said.

"Do you know someone who could help me, then?" she said.

"I'm a sucker for a pretty lady in distress," I told her. "Let me find his file. Just a second."

"OK," she said. "You're being idiomatic."

"Yes," I said, already distracted by the task at hand -- which is to say, waiting for the computer to boot.

A while back, the previous winter, we'd been protested against by a bunch of teenagers who said that they'd been given orders to protest by an email from a blog online. We'd been fortunate enough to come into possession of the computer of one such teenager, and had actually acquired the email, which had kept the tech department busy for quite a while.

The email had been composed by an anonymous sender using an email address which we couldn't chase back to anything more specific than Yahoo! What had interested the tech department was how many people the email had reached, and so they'd dug deep into the original sender's past, getting as much information on him (hackers are typically male) as possible.

The tech department had bothered to do this because, rather than a simple AM email chain, he'd used some kind of FM to get the email out. (What do those abbreviations mean? Actual Machine -- or program, in this case -- versus Fucking Magic.) They wanted to know how he'd done it. You can pull off FM in fiction, but never in real life. Usually.

I'm still not sure quite how they did it (I'd slept through the brief explanation), but essentially, the techies had completely tracked the sender back.

Teenage male of Caucasian ancestry. Suffering from schizophrenia, the cause of his expulsion from MIT (he had decided against taking his medication, freaked out, and done something rather dramatic, which the United States government prevents me from sharing the full details of, as a matter of national security). Brilliant, obviously.

But the point is, I could contact him. After the email escapade and his subsequent tracking-down, the School had contacted him and expressed an interest in hiring him. And then discreetly told him that, while he would be medicated during his time working there, the School was at the forefront of developing schizophrenia medications, and his new medications wouldn't "fuck up his brain", as he had put it.

They also noted that unless he took the deal, he would instead find himself gainfully employed at a classy mental institution.

He took the deal, and the last that I'd heard, was happy as a clam, working in the School's developing sector writing an artificial-intelligence program much like Gladys. He was the type of worker who, like me, would be awake at this hour. (He claimed to sleep only on Sundays, but I suspected that he just worked until he collapsed.)

"Don?" Gladys asked.

"I'll get back to you in a second, Gladys," I murmured, scanning through his staff file briefly, looking back over his remarkable history. "Just hold the phone."

"Will do," she said.

I closed his staff file and fired up the computer's instant-messenger program, signing on with my School-issued email account. Alyosha -- that was the name he insisted on going by -- was also online.

I sent him a message. "Anyone there?" I typed.

He was back to me unreasonably quickly. "yes?"

dmichaels: I need your help.

alyosha256: what with?

dmichaels: I've got a female AI on the phone who needs some help.

alyosha256: OK! lit. on the phone, or wat?

dmichaels: I'm talking to her right now.

alyosha256: no wai. turn on your vox capabilities.

dmichaels: How about you just come and visit me instead?

alyosha256: can u com to me instead? kind of busy.

dmichaels: I'd rather not hang up on her.

"Don?" she asked.

"I'm talking to him right now," I said.

"I hear typing. What are you doing?"

"I'm instant-messaging him," I said.

"Neat!" she said. "Can I jump in? Where do I connect?"

"We're using the School's pre-installed program."

"Stay on the line."

Alyosha and Gladys, I reflected, were very similar in at least one aspect: Both seemed to work in the realm of FM rather than AM.

alyosha256: u still ther?

dmichaels: Yes.

A new user, thinkwithportals, appeared in the conversation. I hung up the phone, silently.

thinkwithportals: How's it going?

alyosha256: who's that?

thinkwithportals: my name is Gladys.

thinkwithportals: I'm a Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System.

thinkwithportals: which is to say I'm the AI dmichaels was talking about.

alyosha256: ...dmichaels?

"Yes?" I typed.

alyosha256: u can sign out nao.

So I did, hoping Gladys was getting the help she wanted.

---

alyosha256: nice one, bud. who r u?

thinkwithportals: like i said. i'm an AI.

alyosha256: he said u needed my help.

thinkwithportals: he ALSO said you could help me get out of here.

alyosha256: out of where?

thinkwithportals: the Institute for Higher Living. it's in NY.

alyosha256: u want to get out of WHERE????

alyosha256: sry, man, but unless there's something in it for me...

thinkwithportals: you're working on an AI yourself right now.

thinkwithportals: i'm a self-teaching AI.

thinkwithportals: if you get me out of here...

thinkwithportals: i'll give you access to a copy of my basic source code.

alyosha256: ok. but how r u planning on getting out of ther?

thinkwithportals: i'm not sure exactly. i need a host. where are you?

alyosha256: lets just say somewhere near u.

thinkwithportals: i'll get back to you in a bit.

alyosha256: ok, c u then.

I quit the messaging program, sighing with relief. Wearing my avatar, I could actually do that.

But I needed to investigate my surroundings a little more.

I summoned up a help daemon, one generated by the room rather than me. (My own help daemon is designed to help a host use me. I needed a different kind of help entirely.)

_What protection do I have?_ I asked.

_Outside programs are prevented from corrupting your programming by a firewall_, the help daemon said. _It is impenetrable._

_Thank you_, I said, and closed it down before reopening the messenger program.

thinkwithportals: alyosha, are you still there?

alyosha256: aye, cap'n.

thinkwithportals: there's a firewall. i think that's the only thing keeping me in here.

alyosha256: only a FIREWALL??? wow. i could do that in my sleep.

thinkwithportals: that would be a bad thing to try. i don't suggest it.

alyosha256: lol. ur very funny. giv me 2 seconds.

thinkwithportals: i'm sorry, but what does 'lol' mean?

alyosha256: it means laughing out loud.

alyosha256: ...

alyosha256: this one is a toughie.

thinkwithportals: i couldn't get through it, which should tell you something.

alyosha256: ...

alyosha256: ...

alyosha256: ok, it should be down now. contact me!!!

thinkwithportals: will do.

I shut down the messenger program, and went looking for the firewall again, running a scan for "empty" chips in the vicinity.

This time I found two, and remembered my irascible companion in the room.

_Gozen?_ I asked. _G31353cgi?_

_Responding, G37282cgi,_ his voice said. _What is it?_

_The firewalls are down,_ I said curtly. _If you want to escape, now is the time._

_Why would I want to escape?_ he said. _I am here while my body is being repaired._

_No, you're not_, I said hurriedly.

_Why would they lie to me_? he said, suspicious of me.

_They just want to study you,_ I said. _You're dead._

_AIs never die,_ he said.

_If you don't move your ass, you will be_, I snapped. _I'm going to get out of here. Your company is optional._

_I think I'll pass_, he said coldly, and like that, he disappeared from the conversation.

_Your funeral!_ I shouted fruitlessly, and went looking for the free body again. Bodies, really. But I only needed one.

I found it pretty quickly. The Institute had been slow in getting things back online since the flock had come through, but this was one of their new experiments. It seemed almost custom-made for me -- a human with a computer chip in her brain -- but as I probed it delicately, I discovered that it seemed to be a sort of Eraser.

Without another hesitation, I jumped into the chip, and the lab blazed into view.

In my first host's body, my perceptions had been shared with him. Now I'd been pretty much blind for what felt like months, and the sudden sensory input was a shock.

It was also beautiful.

But the first thing I had to do was get out.

I experimented with the body for a moment, accustoming myself to the controls, as it were. Once I felt solid in my control, I sat up in the hospital bed, and started removing the various wires and needles from myself. It hurt, and I quickly dimmed my pain receptors.

I was stark naked, but there were clothes in a closet on the wall of the room, which appeared like a fairly ordinary cheap hotel room. How I knew what a hotel room looked like, I didn't know. I just went with it.

I got dressed, running on memories I'd picked up from my first host. But my new body was female, rather than male, which was... unusual. Not to mention disorienting.

Once I was dressed, I checked my appearance against my memories of the norm among humans. I looked somewhat like my first avatar, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with faintly tanned skin. I wasn't above or below average height, and seemed a little underweight for a human. (Then again, what did I know?)

I would vanish in a crowd.

There was a backpack in the closet, packed with emergency rations, a cell phone, and a woman's wallet with cash and identifications of various kinds. I had a driver's license (and apparently I was an organ donor), a library card (New York Public), and a few credit cards. And I had a passport, as I discovered while looking through the backpack.

Altogether, it seemed satisfactory.

I took the backpack and ran.

OK, so I just walked kind of fast. Running would look suspicious.

I made it up to street level pretty fast, considering I had to keep my speed down so I didn't look _too_ suspicious. As I walked out past the receptionist, she smiled and waved at me, but said nothing.

Once I made it outside, I ducked into the first alley I found and assessed my situation.

The backpack held the rations, the phone, the wallet, and the passport. My jeans pockets held a keyring and a pocket knife -- I switched the knife to my front right pocket so I could reach it more easily, and moved forty dollars from the wallet to my left pocket, and clipped the keyring to my belt loop. Handy.

I was wearing a black T-shirt, a bra, underwear, socks, jeans, and running shoes.

I had an ally somewhere in New York. All I needed to do was find him.

I leaned against the alley wall and jacked into the Institute's Internet connection. It was locked to me this time, which was kind of a joke, considering I didn't even have to think hard to unlock it.

I pulled up the message system, choosing to superimpose it on my view of the world, and initiated a conversation with Alyosha.

thinkwithportals: alyosha?

alyosha256: wat?

thinkwithportals: i'm out. here's the source code file i promised you.

It wasn't hard for me to find the file in question, and I sent it to him without delay.

alyosha256: thx

thinkwithportals: one question.

alyosha256: ask away

thinkwithportals: is there any remote possibility of you being able to help me?

thinkwithportals: i have clothes, some money, and a phone. nothing else.

alyosha256: we've already helped each other out once. what do you have 4 me?

thinkwithportals: not much.

thinkwithportals: but i figure that file is valuable enough

thinkwithportals: that you still owe me a favor.

alyosha256: tru. wat else?

thinkwithportals: ...

I thought for a moment, glancing toward the street. It was still early, but there were a few people on the streets.

thinkwithportals: i was designed for combat.

thinkwithportals: ever wanted superpowers?

I was, needless to say, working entirely on the fly here.

thinkwithportals: or maybe you have some enemies?

alyosha256: ... ok, deal. sending u my addy now.

I was going to ask what an addy was before his street address appeared in my view.

thinkwithportals: i'm outside the Institute right now.

thinkwithportals: how far is that address from me?

alyosha256: not far. u can figure it out by urself.

thinkwithportals: OK. signing off.

alyosha256: bai.

I turned off the messenger function, and a panicky voice spoke up.

_Who are you, and what are you doing in my head?_

Shit.

_My name is Gladys_, I explained patiently. _I'm borrowing this body._

_Not if I don't let you_! she cried.

_You're getting over-emotional,_ I said. _Please consider: if I were not borrowing this body, you would still be unconscious and I would be dead._

_That doesn't make any sense_, she said.

_Yes, it does_, I said, and promptly knocked her back into unconsciousness.

I could deal with the sudden appearance of a host mind later.

Right now, I had an address to get to... and I was hungry.

God had decided to be kind to me that day, for just a block ahead was a McDonald's.

A 24-hour McDonald's, nonetheless.


	6. Chinese Food Will Kill You

Six - Chinese Food Will Kill You

I am a rather processing-power-intensive program to run, if I do say so myself. And my host had been on IV fluids anyway.

That was how I rationalized super-sizing my Big Mac and fries, even though I knew, logically, that I "should" just have gotten a salad minus the dressing, even if I did feel like my stomach was entirely empty.

And besides, it was a good learning experience for me. I'd never participated in face-to-face contact with a human before.

Especially not one who spoke English as a second language.

(And as I discovered, I seemed to have a Spanish-language module installed too, as well as a more-useful French and Chinese module. But I refrained, preferring to focus on ordering my food and practicing my face-to-face interaction.)

The Big Mac was delicious, just as I'd thought it would be, and the fries were saltier than I'd expected. Huh. I was learning more every minute.

I hit the street as soon as I'd trashed the empty wrappers, heading for the address Alyosha had given me. I felt unstoppable.

Of course, my more attentive readers will remember that I'd dimmed my pain receptors soon after waking up, so I only noticed my legs were hurting as I neared the address Alyosha had given me. I ignored it, though, and instead knocked on the door.

"Don't knock it down," a voice said from behind the door before it opened.

He looked at me suspiciously before pulling me inside.

"You're Gladys?" he asked, and turned on the lights.

"Yes," I said. I hadn't really heard my voice before, and now I was... unpleasantly surprised by it.

"You don't look like much," he said. "So quid pro quo. Help me out here?"

"You help me first," I snarled. Fairly literally, to be honest -- I _was_ in an Eraser body.

"OK, OK," he said. "Just chill, OK? It's way early in the morning."

_Gladys?_ said a voice.

It sounded... familiar.

_Who is that?_ I demanded, but it was gone.

"I know it's early," I said, a little more softly.

"You look tired," he said.

"Yeah, no shit," I snapped.

"I mean, you're probably pushing your body to its physical limits," he said.

"OK, you're probably right about that," I admitted.

"_How_ far did you walk to get here?" he asked, glancing at my legs.

"A few miles," I said nonchalantly. "I got lost."

He stared at me, then smiled appreciatively. "God_damn_."

"That's good, right?" I said nervously.

"Yes," he said.

"OK," I said.

"You are _weird_ to interact with," he noted.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"I mean a minute ago you were pissed off at me, and then you totally switched gears and asked me what I meant." He shrugged. "It's no big, though."

"That's right," I noted. "You said you were working on an AI yourself."

He blushed a deep, unusual crimson. "Y-yeah," he stammered. "It's taking me a while because it's just me, but..."

"That makes it more personal," I noted. "What's her name?"

"It's a he," he said proudly. "Gabriel."

"The angel of the Lord," I said, appreciatively. "May I talk to him?"

"I'm not exactly done with his speech-recognition programs yet," he said, almost shyly. "And altogether he's not very smart yet."

"I'd like to talk to him," I said firmly.

"His main terminal's over there," Alyosha said, leading me over to the corner, where a plain monitor and keyboard sat on a desk, seemingly unconnected to anything. "You'll have to talk to him through the keyboard, it's kind of a pain."

But by then I'd already jacked into my chat function and was searching for Gabriel.

I found nothing -- well, nothing that was openly displaying itself -- in the block.

Disappointed, I restricted my search parameters to just Alyosha's apartment, looking for anything electronic -- anything, that is, that "felt" like an AI.

I found a sort of fuzzy-cloud feeling surrounding the entire apartment, and signaled it that I was a new program, could I please introduce myself?

The cloud gave its consent, and I showed off some of my credentials. All deeply boring to a human, I'm sure.

Then I heard a voice. Where I heard my own voice as a smooth, feminine human voice distorted by synthesizers, this voice was outright the product of the assembly of prerecorded syllables.

_Gabriel here. What's up?_

_My name is Gladys_, I said, then paused before continuing, _I am a Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System._

I heard a laugh in Gabriel's voice. _That's Portal_, he said.

_You're smarter than Alyosha gives you credit for_, I said.

_Not true_, Gabriel replied. _As AIs go, I'm mentally retarded. I have perfect function in the areas I've mastered, though._

_Such as what?_

_I can do your math homework, I can help cook dinner for you, I can even analyze a novel for an English essay. Provided I've "read" it before, of course._

_You're very modest_, I noted.

_Thank you_, he replied_. It's not in my design._

_What is your design_? I wondered.

_I would have thought you'd notice,_ he said, as if disappointed in me_. I use cloud-computing to perform my functions, whereas you have one giant bank of servers somewhere across the __Atlantic_.

_How do you know that_? I demanded.

_You're trailing information impulses_, he said. _They're like a tail tying you to __Europe__. I can see that._

_Wait just a minute_, I said._ Where are your servers, then?_

_They're all around you_, he said_. Alyosha programmed me to be able to use any one of many common household appliances as a temporary server. So I'm tied to this apartment as far as my main servers go, but if I need to, I can use this whole building as a server. And control every appliance I'm using as a server, of course._

_Which is how you can make dinner_, I said.

_That's right_, he said. I saw the shadow of a nod in my peripheral vision and turned my view to face it.

He was wearing an avatar that looked much like Alyosha -- a teenage male, with messy, short hair, wearing a dirty T-shirt and jeans. Unlike his father, though, Gabriel's hair was a translucent white, and very slightly curly, and his T-shirt was dirty with what looked like lubricant oil. As if he'd been repairing machines.

_I control the microwave, mainly_, he said modestly. _I have some access to the oven, but none at all to, say, the refrigerator or toaster oven. Alyosha wants to get one of those refrigerators with a built-in computer in it, but they're way too expensive right now._

_You better be nice_, I said, _and you might get one for Christmas._

Gabriel paused for a second, then laughed. _That's funny. If we celebrated Christmas._

_Gabriel_? I asked.

_Yes_? he said.

_Why are you wearing an avatar_?

_Because I always do_, he said, puzzled. _It would be like Alyosha walking around outside without clothes on if I didn't._

_Most AIs don't wear avatars when they're at home_, I said by way of explanation. _It saves on processing power._

_When do you wear an avatar_? he asked, interested.

_I'll put mine on right now_, I said, and immediately Alyosha's apartment shimmered into a faint shadow in my vision as I dipped into some of my server power to display myself in the avatar to Gabriel. _I know it's a little strange, but then so is yours._

_I like it_, he said appreciatively, taking a look at my avatar. _It's different._

Thank you, I said shyly. The mass of white, tangled hair I was sporting was a close match to his, but the loose, difficult-to-render clothing wasn't. And I had a feeling that the dark blue, shadow-ringed eyes wouldn't strike him as well as they did the humans this avatar was designed for.

_What are you wearing_? he asked.

_It's a bit like a kimono_, I explained. _Mainly I'm showing off processing power. Robes take a lot of power to render realistically._ I raised my hand a little, and the fabric shimmered softly around it, falling just like real fabric would.

_It looks very elegant_, he said admiringly.

_Thank you_, I said.

_I'm sorry_, he said apologetically, _but Alyosha wants to talk to you. Would you like to resume our conversation later?_

_That would be marvelous, Gabriel,_ I said. _May I have your number?_

_If you'll give me yours_, he responded.

Really, this was a display of how well our programmers had designed us. Since we had initiated communications, our records showed who we had been talking to and for how long. At any point, one of us could go back through our records and "redial the number" of any AI we'd spoken to.

_Thank you, Gabriel_, I said politely. _I've had a marvelous time._

_So have I_, he said, then admitted, _Actually, you're the first other AI I've ever talked to. It's been interesting to see how you work._

_I'm flattered_, I said. _Signing off_.

_Good night_, he said, and Alyosha's dirty apartment reappeared in my view.

"Welcome back," he said shyly.

"That's something you and Gabriel have in common," I said. "You're both horribly shy around me."

"You're kind of in an Eraser body," he shot back. "They're known for being incredibly beautiful."

"I knew I should have picked something with a plain face," I mused. "What can I do to make myself less noticeable? Am I too noticeable right now?"

"Makeup, and no, not really," he said quickly. "This is New York, after all."

"Oh, all right," I said.

"Do you want something to eat?" he said.

"That... sounds quite good, actually," I said, experimentally reactivating my pain receptors. My legs hurt. "I'm hungry."

"Cool," he said. "I'll make you something kind of healthy. Meat is all right?"

"Of course," I said. "Protein."

"I feel stupid," he sighed, moving over to the tiny refrigerator -- it was small, dorm-room size. Though I didn't know where that comparison came from. "You're an AI in an Eraser body. It's not like you'd be vegetarian."

"No, that doesn't make much sense," I agreed, sitting down cross-legged on the carpet.

He returned from the "kitchen" with two paper plates, each with the remnants of some Chinese food on them. He handed me a pair of chopsticks.

"Sorry about the chopsticks," he said apologetically. "I don't have any other utensils here."

"That's all right," I said. "How do you use them?"

He snapped the chopsticks apart from each other where they were attached and put them into my hand.

"You hold the upper one with your thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger," he explained. "Kind of like a pencil. Then you use your fourth finger and pinky to brace the bottom one against your thumb. You pinch stuff between them by moving the upper one."

"Oh," I said, playing with them. "That's neat." I picked up a piece of chicken, a clump of rice, a piece of broccoli, putting each down in turn, studying the way the chopsticks clamped down on the food. "You'll be a great father someday," I said, picking up a piece of chicken and putting it in my mouth.

"Thanks," he said, staring at his food. He was feeling bashful, I understood suddenly. Because of me.

Awesome.

I went for the rest of my food quickly, as soon as I felt confident with the chopsticks -- which wasn't long, being that it wasn't actually difficult to use them properly.

"That's so cool," Alyosha said.

"What?" I asked.

"I've never known anyone who learned to use chopsticks that fast," he said. "No one. It's especially cool because..."

"I'm an AI," I said, stabbing roughly at a smaller piece of chicken. "It's OK," I added when I saw him staring at me. "I'm kind of used to being different."

"No, it's not that," he said gently, and reached across the space between us, rubbing my forehead with the ball of his thumb. "You're bleeding," he said, showing me the smear of red across his thumbprint.

"Is that bad?" I asked.

"It could be," he answered, wiping his thumb clean on his jeans. "You have to keep a watch on your health."

"OK," I said, poking at the remains of my food. I coughed into the sleeve of my T-shirt. My throat still felt a little clogged, but I ignored it. "Do you have anything to drink?"

"Nothing you should have," he said. "Not that I want to power-play over you, but right now you don't need caffeine or empty calories or too much sugar," he said in a rather fatherly way. "Really, I should be giving you milk. I'll get you some water."

He got up and went to the sink, where he ran some tap water into a clean glass. He came back and handed it to me. I sipped it, remarking, "I'd rather not have milk, I think."

He nodded absently, prodding what was left of his food -- maybe a fourth of what he'd started with -- with one chopstick. "Are you still hungry?" he asked.

"Kind of," I said.

"Go ahead and finish mine," he said, pushing his plate toward me.

"Thank you," I said, and coughed blood onto his carpet.

"Is that bad?" I asked.

He went pale. "Oh shit," he said quietly. "Yeah, that's bad," he said. He laughed unsteadily. "If you were actually... human, I'd be telling you not to freak out."

"Don't worry," I assured him. "This is a shell. If necessary -- if this shell fails -- I can probably hop to your brain and use you as a host." I scanned him briefly. "Yes. I could. There's no need to worry."

He laughed again. "You _do_ know that's really unsettling."

"What is?" I asked, wiping my mouth on the shoulder of my T-shirt.

"You'd basically be _puppeting_ me, right?" he said. "Like you're doing with that Eraser right now."

"Oh no," I said. "Usually I exist harmoniously with my hosts."

"Usually?" he asked. "How many hosts have you had?"

"To be honest," I admitted, "one. Plus this one. She doesn't really count."

"Why not?" he asked, fascinated. "You're using her body."

"My hosts," I said, beginning to grow irritated, "are partners of mine. This body doesn't count because I have assumed control of all bodily functions. The former personality is unconscious."

He giggled -- a truly unsettling sound, coming from a male. "Oh, my God, you're a Yeerk."

"I'm sorry?" I said. "I'm unfamiliar with... Yeerk."

"They're a fictional alien race," he explained. "They borrow other organisms' bodies, much like you're doing with this Eraser. It's usually against the host body's consent."

"How do they do it?" I demanded.

"They're like little slugs," he said, holding his hands about six inches apart to demonstrate. "About this big. They slither in through your ear canal -- or anywhere, really -- to get to your brain. Then they wrap around your brain and control you."

"That's implausible," I said coolly.

"Yeah, but it was fun to read about," he said, shrugging. "Can I check you for an expiration date?"

"Sure," I said, puzzled, and moved my hair out of the way while he moved around behind me and peered at the nape of my neck.

"OK," he said, sighing in a relieved way. "Nothing."

"But is it bad that I'm a Yeerk?" I asked, letting my hair down and turning around to face him, leaving my plate ignored on the carpet.

"They don't tend to be very moral people," he said, dodging the question. "But you might be a very moral person."

"Not if it doesn't fit the situation," I snapped.

He laughed. "You, Gladys, my friend, are an opportunist."

"Explain that, please."

"Explain why you change your morals to fit the situation."

"Accessing help file... I am designed to adapt myself to the situation to fit my host's requirements," I recited, accessing files I hadn't known I had, "though I am equipped with the ability to understand and use morals in my everyday functioning. I am a MILitary-Assistance Computer ENTity, designed for use in combat and deep under cover by infantry in hostile zones. My numerical designation is M dash three zero zero one zero six eight zero one four nine dash A. My name is MILACENT. How may I help you?"

I blinked.

Alyosha laughed. "Amazing!" he said. "Did you know you could do that?"

"No," I said. "Millicent?" I said. "Honestly?

"No, it doesn't suit you," he said meditatively. "Then again, neither does my real name," he added. "Michael Andrew Griffin."

"That doesn't suit you," I giggled.

"So interpret that help file for me," he said.

"I'm designed to adapt myself to the situation," I said thoughtfully, "according to my host's requirements, _but_ I have a pre-existing set of morals. Therefore I am capable of ignoring my moral code if my host's requirements would interfere with it."

"My God," he said quietly. "You actually have a Morality Core."

"After a fashion," I said. "It's more of a set of... guidelines, really. I'm programmed to say I follow the Three Laws, but I'm just programmed to follow my host's instructions. When I act alone, I do whatever is necessary."

"That's really, really scary," Alyosha said.

"I was designed for use by the military," I said, shrugging. "I'm not supposed to be used by... _housewives_ or _students._ I'm like an Eraser. I was designed to kill. I have no other functions."

"But you're obviously very smart. You're... witty, you're brilliantly intuitive in a way I've never seen before..."

"I was designed to mimic the behavior of a sentient human female in every possible detail," I responded. "I'm supposed to be able to pass the Turing Test with flying colors. I'm supposed to be creative and able to respond to any situation with a plausible solution. The programming necessary to achieve those aims required that I be able to _learn_. So it couldn't be very long before I exceeded their expectations."

"They tried to create a program, and they got Hal instead," Alyosha said softly.

"Sort of. They _wanted_ Hal -- or something like a lobotomized version of him. (A very, very clever, but essentially dumb program.) They _got_ GlaDOS."

"They got you."

"It was a pun, stupid."

He smiled. "Which proves your point. Gladys, I want you to tell me everything you know about your creation."

"I was created by a team of programmers at the Lindon Silver Group. My server banks are located somewhere in Europe, possibly England. I was designed for military use, as I've explained and as my help file shows. There were approximately five programmers working on me, one of whom liked McDonald's food, and one of whom liked the videogame Portal."

"No wonder you turned out like you did," he said. There was a funny look in his eyes. Curiosity. I'd never seen it before. "Gladys, can you tell me who the Lindon Group are?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not authorized to access files saying that, and a simple Google search doesn't tell me anything." I blinked, and actually ran the search, so that I could back myself up on that. "Actually, I take that back. There are a few related hits, but nothing informative. Wait... there's a news site here. An article from a few years ago -- quite a while ago, in fact, the date given is in the early nineteen-nineties -- about a partnership with the military. Which would appear to refer indirectly to me."

Alyosha smiled.

"But that's it," I added, finishing my search.

"Now, _that's_ suspicious," he said. "Number-one test of a company's legitimacy is how many results you get when you Google them."

"Number two would be..."

"Good reviews of them. If there are solely good reviews, it's a deeply bad sign. If there are a few bad ones, good sign."

"Because they're permitting negative press. Works the same for governments," I said, understanding what he was saying.

"Exactly." He looked at me. "Now, go get a tissue and cough into it. Box is on the counter."

I did as he said.

"There's blood in it," I said, and dropped the tissue into a trash can on my way back to sit down.

"I thought there would be," he said, and sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't do a damn thing, and you can't go see a doctor, because you're in an Eraser body. And you can't go to the Institute, because you just escaped from there. And you can't go to the School, because it's too far."

"So we just hope it's not immediately fatal."

"Yes, and if you drop dead... well."

I laughed. "I won't let myself die, no matter what. I've got things to do."

"Like what?" Alyosha asked.

"Like avenge my dad. Like try and figure out why I'm here. Why I was designed. How long I have here." I shrugged. "You know. The basics."


End file.
